AMARIS’S POV
“I think it’s the red hair,” he muttered, reaching forward. I flinched, but there was no room to escape his touch either way.
His fingers came down on my jaw, gripping softly—just enough to tilt my face in his direction while those slow, indifferent gray eyes studied me closely.
“But I think it’s also the eyes,” he continued. “Perhaps if she wasn’t always glaring, they’d rival even the brightest of emeralds.”
I might have felt something more than the small leap in my chest at his words if they hadn’t come across as a detached observation—a bland, matter-of-fact statement—rather than an actual compliment.
He had said almost the same thing that dreadful day in the cafeteria…
“I like your eye color. They could put emeralds to shame. Sharp, vivid… almost impossible to look a
